


Somewhere In My Heart (There Is A Star That Shines For You)

by AFarFetchedPlot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Party, F/M, Fun and frivolity for Christmas, Irene enjoys flirting, Sherlock doesn't know what the hell is going on, Uni!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 07:26:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13243383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFarFetchedPlot/pseuds/AFarFetchedPlot
Summary: This is a gift for monster-munster (on Tumblr) as part of the Adlock Secret Santa - hope you enjoy! My prompt was Uni!Lock, Teen!Lock, Getting Caught or a mixture of the three, and I decided to focus on Uni!Lock, though there is a flavour of the other two there too :)The title is from the song Somewhere In My Heart by Aztec Camera, and honestly it doesn’t have much to do with the story other than I happened to be listening to it while writing and the song reminded me of a young Irene and Sherlock :P





	Somewhere In My Heart (There Is A Star That Shines For You)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for monster-munster (on Tumblr) as part of the Adlock Secret Santa - hope you enjoy! My prompt was Uni!Lock, Teen!Lock, Getting Caught or a mixture of the three, and I decided to focus on Uni!Lock, though there is a flavour of the other two there too :)   
> The title is from the song Somewhere In My Heart by Aztec Camera, and honestly it doesn’t have much to do with the story other than I happened to be listening to it while writing and the song reminded me of a young Irene and Sherlock :P

 

Squashed in the corner of a crowded room, Sherlock asked himself for the hundredth time why he’d even agreed to come to this _ridiculous_ house party in the first place. Having (mostly) successfully navigated their first term, his fellow students seemed determined to fully test the regenerative capacity of their livers by consuming as much alcohol as they possibly could, and the result was… Well, interesting was one word for it. ‘Moronic’ was the word Sherlock preferred. Inhibitions had been thrown to the wind as people drank more and more, with everyone apparently determined to end the term with a bang. The party-goers had almost become one amorphous mass, crammed as they were into the various rooms of the ground floor of whoever’s house they’d invaded, bouncing along with the music which reverberated throughout the entire building, the deafening noise issuing from several speakers dotted around the place.

Shifting on his perch atop a rather rickety bar stool, Sherlock pulled his greatcoat closer around himself and away from one particularly hammered, loutish bloke who had staggered into his vicinity and was successfully sloshing more of his beer on the floor than into his mouth as he attempted to scream along with the nonsensical words of whichever inane song was currently playing. Rolling his eyes at the spectacle, Sherlock returned his attention to rest of the raucous revelries, attempting to melt further into his corner. If there was a hell, this was probably what it looked like; forever trapped in a room with drunken Freshers, feet sticking to the floor with various spilled substances, which were best not examined too closely, and endless thumping music perfectly designed for bringing on a migraine.

Seriously, what had made him think this was a good idea? It wasn’t even like he could blame the fact he’d come to this bloody party all on John – his flatmate wasn’t  _that_  persuasive – he’d just been curious, to be honest. He’d missed out on Freshers week, by his own choice, obviously, but some of the stories which had circulated afterwards had painted a rather colourful picture of his fellow students, and he’d admit to having been rather curious about it all. Suffice to say, his curiosity had been well and truly satisfied after this experience. Next time he’d just stay home and study…

Gazing out across the mass of drunken students flailing and thrashing about, in what he supposed was meant to be dancing, he paused, attention caught by a figure wending their careful way through the crowd. Dressed in a loose, blue dress which barely skimmed her knees and an overly large leather jacket, she seemed to be slightly older than the other students; maybe a second or third year who’d tagged along when they’d heard about the party? Ebony curls cascaded around her shoulders, perfectly framing her face and reminding Sherlock almost forcibly of the china dolls his Grandmother collected, once upon a time; they shared a similar fragility and perfection. Not that this girl could be considered particularly fragile; she seemed to carry a sense of danger with her, her lips stained scarlet and stretched into a sly smile which promised both temptation and redemption, wrapped up in one petite package. She was mesmerising, and Sherlock felt himself drawn towards her in a way he didn’t understand and certainly couldn’t explain, and almost before he realised it, he’d gotten to his feet, beginning to weave his own tortuous path through the celebrating masses in an attempt to follow her.

It was hard to keep an eye on her after joining the crowd, despite his height, and he lost her once or twice, but a flash of blue from between dancing couples renewed his efforts, and ignoring the annoyed squawks of several students as he burst between them, he was finally free of what had become the dance floor. The mysterious girl too had managed to break out and was standing near the drinks table, idly nodding her head along to the music as she poured herself a drink. Right. So, he’d found her. Now what? For once, his mind was a terrible shrieking blank, and he tried to tamp down the rising panic this incited; it was  _just_  a girl. He could talk to her? Yes. That was a sensible idea, right? He could do that.

Taking a moment to steal a slow, steadying breath, Sherlock quickly smoothed his shirt and coat into place before giving his curls a quick brush through with his fingers. Squaring his shoulders as he moved towards the drinks table, he switched to a slow saunter as he neared her, casually reaching for a random bottle and splashing some into a cup, the picture of calculated nonchalance. Turning slightly to face her and pointedly ignoring the loud thumping of his heart, Sherlock opened his mouth to say something when he was nudged sharply by an over-enthusiastic reveller, and he could only watch in horror as the contents of his cup were sent flying all over himself. Fan _bloody_ tastic. Making the mistake of glancing up at the girl, he flushed as he saw her biting her lip, clearly trying not to laugh, and sighed internally as he dropped his gaze back to his soaked t-shirt. Not exactly a great first impression.

Feeling something being shoved into his hands, he looked up again to see the mysterious girl was handing him some napkins, gesturing behind him, and turning his head, he spotted the door to the patio and gratefully followed her outside, gulping in the cool night air as he set about trying his best to mop up the worst of the spill.

“I thought it might be a little easier to talk out here,” she explained as she shut the door behind them, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “Plus you might dry a little quicker.” Giving a non-committal grunt at that, Sherlock kept his focus on attempting to blot his clothes dry, though he continued to watch her covertly through his eyelashes.

Up close, he could see she was much younger than she first seemed, probably only a first year like himself. The leather jacket she wore was old and battered, and clearly belonged to someone else ( _Designed for a large frame so probably male. From a friend?_ Boy _friend…?),_  swamping her tiny frame. She still somehow pulled it off though, exuding such an air of self-assurance and self-confidence that Sherlock was certain she could probably make a burlap sack look chic-

“Will it survive?” Startled from his thoughts –  _ridiculous_ , irrelevant thoughts… - he glanced up, feeling his face flush again as he met her piercing gaze, transfixed once more by its icy grey depths.

“I’m… Sorry?” He asked eventually, getting the words out with difficulty, as though his mouth was full of cotton wool.  _What the hell was wrong with him…? Maybe he was coming down with flu…_  His response merely seemed to further amuse his companion, however, who took a step closer and plucked at the damp material of his Ramones shirt.

“Your shirt? Do you think it will survive its ordeal?”

“…Probably. I’ll get John to wash it.” Laughing at that, the mysterious girl stepped away again, moving to take a seat on one of the patio chairs which had been set out in the weed-riddled garden. Kicking off her heels, she curled up in the chair, raising an eyebrow expectantly at Sherlock until he slowly followed and dropped into a neighbouring chair.

“Boyfriend?”

“Flatmate.” Wrapping his coat around himself to help keep the evening chill at bay, he supressed a shiver before turning his full attention back to the girl. “But he’s not always very observant and never notices if I slip some of my clothing in with his. Well,” he amended with a soft grin. “Not until it’s too late.”

“Clever.” Amusement dancing in her eyes, she regarded him thoughtfully for several long moments, almost making Sherlock want to squirm under her scrutiny. He quickly squashed the feeling, however, choosing to return her gaze levelly instead, letting the silence stretch and expand between them until it seemed to fill the tiny garden, leaking into the night sky and drowning out the faint sounds of the party still in full swing behind them. “I do like clever men…”

“What’s your name?” He blurted out in answer, no longer able to contain his discomfort at the alien feeling of being judged and analysed by this stranger.  _And what even were you supposed to_  say _to something like that?_  “I’m not sure I’ve seen you around before.”

“I could say the same of you; I’d  _definitely_  have remembered those cheekbones,” his companion replied with a sweet smile which was anything but; darkness and danger wrapped up together with a healthy serving of mischief, masquerading as innocence. “I’m Irene. And you are…?”

“Sherlock.”

“Unusual name.”

“You should hear what they called the others,” he retorted before he could help himself, though the laughter he startled from her settled something warm and almost like pride deep in his chest, and he couldn’t help but smile back. “What are you studying?”

“Guess,” was Irene’s reply as she shifted slightly in the chair so she was facing him, a smile tugging at the corners of her painted lips as she waited.

Eyes narrowing minutely as he studied her, he let his gaze trail slowly over her, noting the small clues presented to him as he went. He still wasn’t  _quite_  as good at reading people as Mycroft, but he was getting there, and it was always surprising the sheer  _wealth_  of information one could learn when one really _looked_.

“I would say something related to business, or possibly politics; a subject with real-world applications, though not a vocational subject. Something with implications of power and debate though; you need the challenge. For your major, at least.”

“My major?” She asked, an eyebrow arched enquiringly at him.

“You’re doing two subjects, of course. The first, because it’s something useful in your future career. But your minor, oh…” He trailed off and gave a grin. “That’s what you truly love. Something creative, probably. Drama, perhaps. Or… Art?”

“That’s certainly an impressive party trick you have there… And it’s music, actually,” she added with a slight smile which only grew at Sherlock’s annoyed scowl (there was always  _something_  he missed). “With Business Studies. And yourself? What do you study? Something to do with the Law, maybe, with observational skills like those?”

“Forensic science,” he confirmed, feeling a dull pang of alarm as he watched her slipping her shoes back on. “Going somewhere…?” Getting to her feet, she offered him a slight smile as she nodded.

“It’s getting a little cold, and I should probably get back inside. But, it’s been a pleasure, Sherlock. Perhaps I’ll see you again at the next party…”

Watching her begin to walk away, Sherlock scrambled inelegantly to his feet and followed, calling after her. “Irene! Wait!“ Reaching her, he quickly slipped his coat off and placed it round her shoulders, avoiding her slightly surprised gaze. “Now you won’t get cold,” he mumbled by way of explanation, and as her expression cleared a slight mischievous gleam appeared in her grey eyes.

“No, but you will. And we can’t have that.”

“I don’t feel the cold,” Sherlock lied, ignoring the blatant goosebumps rippling up and down his arms, and Irene laughed lightly, stepping closer until he could feel the warmth of her at his front.

“Liar… But it was sweet of you to give up your coat.” Stretching up until her lips were almost grazing his, she murmured softly with a sly smile, “Although if you wanted me to stay, you only had to ask…” Sherlock didn’t really know what to say to that, finding it hard to think properly with her this close, her perfume filling his senses and clouding his thoughts. Slowly, they closed the scant distance between them, lips barely brushing together when –

“Sherlock!” Gritting his teeth, Sherlock was determined to ignore his flatmate – the medical student got pissy enough when h _e_  interrupted him and his girlfriends, so  _he_  could bloody well wait this time… - when he called again. “Sherlock? Sherlock, you out here? Come on, stop pissing about, it’s bloody freezing out here!”

 “ _Yes_ , John, hang on a minute!”  He called over his shoulder, glaring over at his friend.  _Of all the bloody times to come outside…_  Turning back to Irene, he was disappointed, though not especially surprised, to see she’d stepped away again, although she was still smiling, which… Was maybe a good sign?  _She wasn’t fleeing into the middle distance, at least._  “Sorry about that.”

“Flatmate?”

“Unfortunately. I’ll kill him later.”  

“But not before he’s done your washing.” Still smiling, she reached up and pressed a kiss to his cheek before stepping away. “Perhaps next time.”  

“Sherlock?” John called again,

“Yes, alright John!”  Sherlock shouted, turning towards his flatmate. By the time he looked back at where Irene had been, she had already melted into the darkness.  _Damn it, John_ …

It wasn’t until much later that he realised she still had his coat, and without a last name he had little chance of trying to track her down to retrieve it. Something else he could blame on his sodding flatmate, who had been all but unbearable after finding him almost kissing someone. Idiot. He was surrounded by  _idiots_. Maybe he’d drag John round London trying to find a replacement coat as punishment. Or there was always that experiment about the decomposition of road kill he’d been thinking about trying. Maybe under John’s bed, or the kitchen cupboards… _  
_

The following morning, as he was leaving the flat, he almost tripped over a wrapped parcel, waiting outside his door. Wrapped in black paper with a red ribbon, it was clearly addressed to him, and glancing either way down the corridor, he slowly reached down and picked up the parcel. Stepping back inside the flat, he warily unwrapped it, before grinning as he realised it was his ‘lost’ coat. Shaking it out so he could put it on, he paused as something white fluttered out of the folds, and stooping to pick it up, he realised it was a short note. It simply said: “Dinner? IA”, with a string of numbers afterwards which must have been her phone number. Unable to help the grin spreading across his face, Sherlock pocketed the note again, an additional spring in his step as he left the flat. Perhaps parties weren’t so bad after all…

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr as afarfetchedplot where I always welcome prompts and people to chat about fandom things with :)


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